


first cut is the deepest

by bellezza



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Self-Harm, content warning, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellezza/pseuds/bellezza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all gets easier from here. TW for self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	first cut is the deepest

The cave stopped being so eerie the third or fourth time around.

Merrill has grown used to it. The dim half-life sneaking through cracks in the rock, like some cautious creature sniffing for danger. The smell of must and moist and moss and other m-lettered things, mixed into a rich, earthy perfume spiced with the smell of rot. The tiny _drip drip drip_ of water on stone mingling with the quiet whisper of air moving through stale spaces. Sometimes the whisper becomes a quiet moan.

But during her third or fourth visit Merrill discovered that if she tilts her head to the left just so and lets her eyes drift closed in a dreamy sort of way, the sounds become more of a lullaby. The light looks a bit like it does sifting into the aravel at dawn. The smell--

Well, halla smell worse.

It's all a matter of perspective, really.

She settles into her usual spot before the statue, on a dry-ish bit of the moss carpeting the cold stone floor. Tucks her feet beneath her thighs for warmth and lets her body relax, bone by bone, muscle by muscle, cell by cell, until she feels each whisper of the air through her skin.

_You return_. Audacity's voice slips into her mind, quiet as silk. _I feared your Keeper would not let you._

"She's my mentor, not my mother," Merrill says, feeling waspish at that barb. But she takes the still air and draws it into herself, calming her irritation. It is true Marethari would keep Merrill away if she could, but short of commanding the vines and trees to tie her up and bind her, she cannot stop where Merrill goes.

The stones seem to creak - the spirit, chuckling to itself. _Too true, little one. And it seems I made you a promise last we met, did I not? Have you thought it over?_

"Yes," Merrill answers. Her voice sounds steelier than she feels.

_Then do as I instruct. Take the knife you carry in your boot and cut your hand._

She draws from her boot the small ironwood dagger fashioned by Master Ilen for her twelfth nameday and studies it. He would so disapprove if he knew what she was using it for. Nerves flutter in her gut, but she forces them down. She will do this. She _will_. Merrill presses the blade's edge to palm, takes a deep breath, and draws it across.

The knife bites into her skin, harsh and iron. Merrill flinches. _What am I doing?_ she thinks, suddenly aghast, and _Hush, child_ , the spirit croons, steeling her. Visions of that long-lost empire, the glittering elvhen cities, flash through her mind. _Do you feel it?_

Blood wells up from the cut, hot and thick and so very red. The color transfixes Merrill; her world narrows down to the sight of it, the sleek grey-brown of her knife, and the sound of her breath rushing fast and heavy down her throat. She swallows. Her tongue feels too thick.

And then she feels it singing from her blood.

_Power_.


End file.
